The Burden: Entry 1

March 11th, 1996.

Mood: Purgative.

I see you're reading my diary. Peering into the depths of my mind, the inner sanctum of my mental machinations. That's good. Shows either you're interested or perhaps just flicking through. My money's on the latter, you're probably thumbing through this as you go through my belongings. Just like everyone else - I'm of no consequence. Pawn this rant, cast it aside for those sparse few cents you need to pay off your drug dealer. Go on. Maybe the pawn shop owner will be more interested in what I have to say, or perhaps the sad chap who sorts through the recyclables, discontent with life. I have more in common with that guy than anyone else, but you'll never know because you're not reading this, are you?

Still here, are you? Still indulging in my miseries? Are they intriguing to you? Do I write well? Are my problems of interest? Well, if you've stuck around long enough to read this, maybe I'm doing something right. We'll see how it goes. So I guess I'll talk about some of my problems.

I recently lost someone, though not in the conventional sense. She was very dear to me, we were very close. And one day, she was gone. Taken away from me in a flash of thunder. At first, I felt nothing but anger and vengeance at those who abducted her. Nothing but seething hatred for her and her kidnappers. Then I realized she left of her own accord, abandoned the life she led here, the glories of the mundane and comfortable to stake her own claim in the world. My blindness could not see past the selfish fact that she left me. I didn't want to be happy for her successes. I just wanted my hatred to be mollified. And I harbored it for a good while, kept my feelings close to my chest. I drowned them in alcohol, marijuana, and the company of others, but nothing could quite fill the void left in her wake.

And one night, while intoxicated, I found myself violently assailed by an inebriated stranger, his fist knocking me out cold in the middle of Golden Gate Park. I was unconscious for some time, waking up to a beautiful and vast blue sky. And lost in that infinite blue I was woken up. Snapped out of my trance, realizing my hubris and folly. If she were here, she'd want my support, whatever I could offer. What she didn't want in her time of need was venomous thoughts of poison. But she wasn't here anymore. What did it matter? I could improve myself, but if there was no one to judge, why change?

I moved towards the final step, acceptance. It's what those new-age doctors call the last step of dying. And in a way, it was true. What is death but the passage of another person to another place? She left, went to another place, effectively dying. She was dead to me. No contact, no calls. But what happens after the death? Mourning. Remembrance. And that's what I did. I didn't linger on her metaphorical death. I remembered and honored it. But maybe she's still out there. Alive. Doing well. I hope that's the case. And I hope she hasn't forgotten about me.

Still reading? Well, good man. I didn't think I could captivate you. A rant on a lost woman who may or may not be alive, I suppose, is somewhat interesting. Have I hooked you? Is my writing perhaps exude an aura of intrigue? I hope so. But you know what I've realized in writing this entry? It's a very nice way to get things off your chest. Burdens. Onuses. I'll see you next time, if you care to read.

Peace and Love, Captain Jeremiah First, former Second Infantry Division.

PS. Thinking of doing this as a serial. What do you think?